


i've turned my back (but the stars are beckoning still)

by californianNostalgia



Series: Thuban, Polaris, Vega [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Depression, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV Multiple, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychic Bond, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, filling in the blanks, they really could have made a whole season out of the last ten minutes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22763677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/californianNostalgia/pseuds/californianNostalgia
Summary: "That's never been documented on any star chart," says Lance, offhand, casual. "Popped into existence at the same time as Altea. Visible everywhere. Perpetually inaccessible. It's like a permanent watermark on reality.""What?" Pidge says, half-distracted by the beauty of space, ever so new and surprising—but then it hits her.The shape of the blue celestial clouds depicts a woman. It's a silhouette she knows—head bowed, curled up, gently cradling the center of the universe—the Lion-Mother, the Princess, the Paladin.Allura has become a constellation.Pidge rips herself away from the telescope and stares up at Lance in wordless horror. He meets her accusing gaze, silent and expressionless, and she sees it in the heavy grief that paints itself over his eyes—he knows what he's done to her. He's done this on purpose.He's shown her proof that Allura isn't simply lost. He's given her an ultimatum, that this is one disappearance she can't solve. This is irreversible."You fucker," Pidge hisses.Lance snorts. "What, you think I should've let you chase a star cloud for the rest of your life?"
Relationships: Allura & Hunk & Keith & Lance & Pidge | Katie Holt & Shiro
Series: Thuban, Polaris, Vega [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1651192
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	i've turned my back (but the stars are beckoning still)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One need not be a chamber to be haunted,  
> One need not be a house;  
> The brain has corridors surpassing  
> Material place.
> 
> \- Emily Dickinson

Allura used to say that she didn't have nightmares. Her nightmares would never be long enough to contain all her demons.

Her dreams weren't terrifying, or sad. She said they were confusing.

She said there was time to be terrified and sad after she was awake. Her dreams were dwellings for the dead. It was so packed with longing and half-remembered joys that there wasn't any room for fear or grief. She said it would be remiss of her if she didn't appreciate the deceitful relief her dreams provided her.

They used to sit up at night and stargaze. Lance knew Earth was somewhere out there. He also knew, deep down, that he would never be able to return until this war had finished leeching the life out of him. 

Allura knew Altea wasn't anywhere out there. Her planet was dead. But she still stayed up to watch the stars with him, and they shared their unspoken longing in the silence.

Altea's alive, now. Allura is gone. The war finished draining him of every last bit of himself, then threw him aside like a crumpled juice box.

He always knew, deep down, that he wouldn't survive this war. 

* * *

They're kind of a mess, the first month after. By all rights, as Defenders of the Universe, they should be flying around the galaxy to help deal with the fallout of the near-destruction of the world. But they don't.

Instead, Shiro tows in the pilotless Blue Lion, and they land on Altea. The planet is devoid of any hints of civilization, but it's alive. The Atlas undergoes massive repairs. Coran gets busy contacting the Alteans hidden away in the cracks of the universe, to inform them of their resurrected home planet. The Blade of Marmora reaches out to the Atlas through shaky transmissions and reassures them that the clean-up is being taken care of.

The Paladins keep to their quarters.

It's like they've been cut loose from their moorings, hanging suspended in zero-grav. Hunk stays in the kitchens and stress-bakes. Lance goes stargazing. Keith reverts to old habits and lives in the sparring room.

Shiro is hospitalized.

"Serves you right," Pidge tells him, standing over his bed in the med bay. 

Shiro raises his eyebrow at her. He looks tired.

"What? I'm not the one who wrecked their second body after their first one died. Maybe this will teach you not to be so dumb."

Shiro sighs.

Pidge doesn't remember much of that first month, to be honest. She locks the door and holes up in her room. She tries to write a code to track the Universe Core, then tries to rewrite that code. She overloads two computers and breaks the third by jamming her bayard into it. Her family calls to ask her to dinner. She tells them no. She's busy.

The Source spat them out near Altea. If she can backtrack the energy signals, maybe she can chart a navigation route back to Allura.

Allura isn't dead. She's just absent. The restoration of realities is complete, which means they can go pick her up. If they can figure out how.

Pidge has found missing people before.

One night, Lance shoots the lock off her door. "This is an intervention," he declares.

She throws a tissue box at his head. "You broke my door!"

Lance ducks. Hunk, who's standing behind Lance, isn't fast enough. "Ow."

"Whoops," says Pidge.

"Intervention," states Hunk.

The two of them carry her out of her room. Pidge discovers Shiro's been discharged from the med bay and they're having a celebratory dinner. Hunk cooked a three-course meal. Keith tries to hoard the sweet fried roots and gets shoved off his seat by Lance.

"When was the last time you took a shower?" Shiro asks Pidge with a tiny grin.

"Shut up," she grumbles, shoveling cube steaks of alien meat into her mouth.

After the dinner, Hunk clears the plates and Shiro offers to help with the dishes. Keith mumbles something about dishwashers and follows them into the kitchen. Lance leads her out of their quarters. "Come on," he says. "I need to show you something."

They ride the elevator to the very top deck of the Atlas. "Ta-da," says Lance, opening the door to a glass-domed ceiling and a behemoth of a telescope.

Altean constellations are nothing like Earth's constellations, but they're pretty cool.

They sit on the floor and stare at the sky for a bit. Then Lance gets up to fiddle with the telescope.

"Do you know what you're doing, or should I be worried about getting sued for facility damage?" Pidge asks him. 

"Relax, this isn't my first time here," he says, and there's something in his voice that hits her wrong, but she can't figure out what. 

He steps back from the eyepiece and beckons at her to come see. She complies.

It's a small constellation, lit with celestial clouds glowing Altean blue. 

"That's never been documented on any star chart," says Lance, offhand, casual. "Popped into existence at the same time as Altea. Visible everywhere. Perpetually inaccessible. It's like a permanent watermark on reality."

"What?" Pidge says, half-distracted by the beauty of space, ever so new and surprising—but then it hits her.

The shape of the blue celestial clouds depicts a woman. It's a silhouette she knows—head bowed, curled up, gently cradling the center of the universe—the Lion-Mother, the Princess, the Paladin.

Allura has become a constellation.

Pidge rips herself away from the telescope and stares up at Lance in wordless horror. He meets her accusing gaze, silent and expressionless, and she sees it in the heavy grief that paints itself over his eyes—he knows what he's done to her. He's done this on purpose. 

He's shown her proof that Allura isn't simply lost. He's given her an ultimatum, that this is one disappearance she can't solve. This is irreversible.

"You fucker," Pidge hisses.

Lance snorts. "What, you think I should've let you chase a star cloud for the rest of your life?"

She shoves him, hard. He staggers back.

Then she's running—down the elevator, down the corridors, out into the evening air and straight to her Lion. She curls up inside Green and waits for the sunrise to wipe away the stars. She can't stand the sight of them.

Once, before she knew the night sky pulled people in and didn't give them back, there was a girl who looked up at the stars and thought they were beautiful.

* * *

The morning after, they learn Pidge hasn't returned to her room. Hunk starts mixing up his peanut butter cookie batch. Shiro goes outside to see the Lions. Lance doesn't say anything.

There hasn't been a battle to fight for over a month. A restless itch has settled under Keith's skin. It feels like a piece of his soul has been carved out, but there's no target for his pain.

He keeps thinking it should have been him.

"I need a sparring partner," he tells Lance.

"Sure," Lance says.

It's brutal. They whale away at each other, Lance with alternating rifle and sword, Keith with his bayard and dagger.

At one point, Lance slams him with the shield and Keith's dagger goes clattering out of his hand. Keith tastes blood in his mouth as he grabs the shield close and smashes the hilt of his bayard-sword into Lance's helmet, knocking it off his head. Lance releases the shield and wrenches at Keith's wrist, causing him to drop his bayard.

Keith punches Lance's bayard out of his hand. Lance drives his knee into Keith's stomach. 

Someone must have called Shiro, because he comes running in when they're halfway to bludgeoning each other purple. "Whoa!" he says, pulling them apart. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Sparring," Keith says, breathing hard.

"This isn't how you spar!"

"Keith started it," says Lance, wiping blood off his split lip.

Shiro drags them both to the med bay. "Whatever this is, work it out," he says sternly, and Keith suddenly remembers him younger, dark hair and smiling eyes and two flesh hands.

The two of them lie in their plastic cots for a mandatory nap and stare up at the ceiling in silence. Then Keith asks, "Feel less angry yet?"

After a pause, Lance says, "No."

"Yeah," says Keith. "Me neither."

"Huh," says Lance. Then he asks, "Did you let me beat you up because you feel guilty and this is a weird self-destructive instinct to distract yourself with violence?"

"No," says Keith, shifting uncomfortably. "I didn't let you do anything."

Lance snorts. "You realize you suck at lying, right?"

"Shut up," Keith grumbles. "You agreed to fight me."

Lance sighs. "Yeah, well. Your terrible life choices are kind of contagious."

* * *

Taking a hit from a laser cannon in Voltron is like being electrocuted. Your body seizes up as the shockwaves of pain shudder through you. You learn to shake off the residual aches as quick as you can. Take a hit, deal a hit.

Getting all the energy sucked out of Voltron is worse than being electrocuted. You can’t move when you need to move, so you grit your teeth and force your body back from the brink of unconsciousness. It’s a whole other level of awful. You can never quite get used to it.

It’s like running. Running for minutes, for hours, no stopping, no reprieve. Your lungs burn, your limbs ache, you want to drop to your knees and close your eyes. You think you can’t run any longer. Then you run a bit more, and a bit more, you run until your vision goes dim and your brain shuts you down.

Then you shake yourself conscious, stand up, and run some more. 

Your teammate says, _give it everything you’ve got_. And you do. You give it everything, every thought, every sliver of strength you can squeeze out of your barely functioning body. You give with no hope and no intention of waking up again.

Ironic, how you keep waking up again.

* * *

They all signed up for this. Entering the Galaxy Garrison means that someday, they might be expected to give their lives in defense of the planet. Being cadets means being backup soldiers.

But the crux of it is, most people don’t really think about that part when they sign up.

For Shiro, it was defiance.

All he had left were a few, meager years.

“You don’t have long,” the doctors kept parroting.

So he gave himself to exploration, to service, to defending others. He saved Matt because, if Matt got out of this, he'd have the opportunity to live a long, full life. Shiro didn’t.

It was his reasoning, his purpose, his drive. Only got a few years left. Might as well use them on something useful.This body is broken already. How much worse can he do to it?

Turns out, the answer is death—but even that doesn't stick. He gets a new, semi-functional clone body. So he drives that one into the ground as well.

It feels vindictive. Spiteful. _Watch how much I can do before. Watch how many records I can set before._

_Before, before, before._ Just a little bit more. Pain is familiar. Move while you can. Carve a mark so big no one will be able to ignore it.

He thinks the universe might be playing a joke on him when he discovers he’s outlived Adam.

It's only after the final battle that the Atlas' doctors can convince him to take time to heal. Pidge comes to nag at him in the med bay, saying, "Serves you right." Shiro resists the urge to roll his eyes at her.

The doctors are surprised when they can't find a hint of the sickness that had plagued his original body in his new one. Shiro is equally surprised when they say, "You have a long life ahead of you, Captain."

What does that even mean?

He pulls Pidge out of Green and drags Keith and Lance to the med bay. He thinks about a small bronze plaque on the memorial wall, back on Earth. 

He's not getting a matching plaque until he dies in service, and they just told him he might live to see retirement.

The next day, the Atlas takes off from Altea, bound toward Earth. When the navigation courses are fixed and stable, Shiro goes to find his oldest living friend.

"Hey," he says, poking his head into Matthew Holt's office. "Got a minute?"

* * *

“This clone body—it’s different,” Shiro says over three shots of whiskey and five empty beer cans. The Atlas has a small but reasonably well-stocked bar, accessible only in great celebrations or emergencies. But people have long since allowed exceptions for Captain Shirogane. With good reason, Matt thinks, downing the rest of his beer.

Shiro hangs his head. “I used to have a clock ticking down on my time. But they told me . . . there’s no clock anymore.”

Matt immediately recalls seeing the Galra Death Arena for the first time. _I don’t want to die_. Shiro had been facing death for who knows how long, and Matt just _had_ to be a fucking coward in front of him.

Shame ravages his insides, a touch more violently than usual. Matt pops open another beer and waits patiently for Shiro to collect his thoughts.

"I think," says Shiro, haltingly. "I think I was playing chicken with fate. I expected to die in space. I kept daring it to kill me. It never stuck."

Matt hums noncommittally.

Shiro raises his eyebrows. "Do you have to report me to Psychological Services now?"

"Nah," says Matt. "I get it. You're totally valid. I've been playing dare for a while, too."

There was a time Matt thought Shiro died for him. His father was most likely dead as well. The rebels couldn't spare the resources that would take some inconsequential operative back to his home planet located entire systems away. He accepted the high possibility of never seeing his mother or sister again and threw himself into the fight.

He signed up for the battle of Baqine with full knowledge of what it would cost. They needed to tie down the Galra forces in the quadrant long enough for key resources to be smuggled out. He went into battle expecting to die, and inexplicably, survived.

He was one of the few who did. Long after the Galra cleared out, the remaining rebels collected the transponders of their fallen brethren and built a memorial. In his dreams, Matt can’t see where the graves end.

Lucky of him, to have survived. So fucking lucky.

It was more of a brazen dare at the universe than actual hope. He planted his own transponder in the graveyard and configured the numbers in a way only his dead father would be able to decode. Then, armed with the self-justifications that he'd tried his best, he retreated to a secluded outpost and waited for the Galra to come finish the job.

Katie found him first.

He's living on borrowed time. So he figures, why not keep pushing his luck? It's worked out so far. He has a ropy scar on his face and left knee to prove it.

"Nothing on your scale, of course," Matt tells Shiro. "But it sounds like you won't be dying in space after all. Congratulations, man. It only took a death and a resurrection."

Shiro snorts. "Sure. Haven't got anyone to go back to, but apparently I'm going to live a long life."

Matt squints at him. "Am I seriously the only person who knows how morbid you are?"

"Keith might have an idea," Shiro admits. "I may have nearly died in front of him too many times. I get talkative when I'm about to die."

"Really?"

"No."

"Interesting."

Shiro looks down at his beer. "Remember when we got chosen for Kerberos?"

Matt's breath stops in his throat. He coughs it free. "How could I forget?" He tries to say it like a joke, but fails miserably when his voice cracks at the end. Fuck.

Shiro says, "Sometimes I wish we hadn't been so starstruck."

Heh. Starstruck. "Sure," says Matt. "Then we'd have stayed on Earth, and some other poor sods would've gotten snatched. No you, no dramatic escape from the Galra, no daring rescue by my sister and Co, no Voltron. The universe is doomed forever and Earth is violently colonized. The end."

Shiro gives him a dark look.

Matt raises one eyebrow.

"Others could have piloted Voltron," Shiro tries to argue.

"Maybe," allows Matt. "But I, for one, am glad _I_ was the fresh-faced research graduate who got loaded with scars. I know for a fact that Julia wouldn't have liked dealing with Galra prison hygiene."

Shiro doesn't look at him. "Is that what you tell yourself to justify the pain you've caused to the loved ones you left behind?"

"Hey, low blow." Matt sighs. That actually stung, but they're both drunk and Matt is living on time borrowed with Shiro's sanity. "Alright, I see what you're thinking. Is this about Adam?"

Shiro's Altean arm crunches the beer can into a pathetic metal ball. 

"I can't speak for him," Matt says slowly, "but I believe, judging from how readily he came to Earth's defense, that he would have been very proud of how you've saved the world."

"I left him," Shiro croaks.

"It wasn't your choice."

"It was. He asked me to spend the remainder of my life with him. I refused." Shiro buries his face in his hands. "All because I wanted to die in fucking space."

"Oh, you're swearing. That's bad." Matt awkwardly pats Shiro's flesh shoulder. He wishes he was less drunk for this. "I mean, we've gotten tired of space _now_ , but we weren't tired of space back then. Space is unfairly attractive. Humans are like moths when it comes to space. It was inevitable."

"Allura's dead," Shiro mumbles into his hands. "Zach and Issa and Danny are dead. Maya, Jen, Dev, Kolin . . . they're all dead."

Matt closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing. His head hurts.

"They're all dead and I'm still alive," says Shiro, voice shaking. "Adam is d-dead, and I'm _alive_."

Shiro's words clatter around Matt's head. The endless graves in his memory stretch out to the horizon.

Shiro isn't a messy crier. But Matt is. Between the two of them, they empty a whole box of tissues to wipe away their drunk tears and snot.

Once upon a time, two Garrison graduates sneaked onto their dorm roof to pop open a beer and joke about aliens on Mars.

"Do you ever wish we hadn't gone on that mission?" Shiro asks.

Matt answers truthfully. "Every single day."

* * *

Hunk blinks awake from yet another unsettling dream. It was the usual fare of a crumbling black void eating away at realities, but with several purple spears embedded in his stomach and a shrinking portal placed too far away to reach in time. Throw in the dying scream of a dozen Balmeras, and voila, it's a textbook-definition nightmare.

Well. Maybe not textbook-definition. He isn't sure if normal people nightmares usually involve the existential terror of literally watching the last strand of reality get snipped in front of him. 

He wonders if the others realize that for a short, unquantifiable stretch of time, the six Paladins and Honerva were the only living creatures in the entirety of their universe. Everyone else was dead. If Allura didn't set off a Big Bang of realities and resurrect them all, they would still be dead. 

Mm. Fun morning thoughts. Time to bake some cookies.

The Atlas is heading for the nearest teludav point, which is about two weeks away. Once they make that final jump, they'll be back in Earth's Solar System. Iverson is hurrying them back because with Allura gone, Voltron doesn't exist. Blue is missing a pilot. Their team is willing to let it stay that way. Hunk suspects Blue would be willing to accept Lance back as her Paladin, but that would be an incredibly cruel thing to ask of Lance. 

They left the Blue Lion on Altea, with Coran. Hunk cried about it in private.

So Voltron is basically over. None of them have even tried flying their Lions yet. The absence in the mind-link would be too pronounced.

Mmm, and his morning thoughts are getting ahead of him again. Cookies. Peanut butter cookies.

He commandeers the kitchen. People let him because apparently he's a war hero and he's made enough sacrifices in his nineteen years of life. The resident seventeen-year-old war hero ambles into the kitchen halfway through the baking process and settles herself on the flour-dusted countertops like a cat. Hunk works around her.

"Whatcha coding?" he asks, pointing his chin at her wrist-com.

"Eh," says Pidge. "Did you know Lance and Keith are beating the shit out of each other on a daily basis? When did that start?"

"About a week ago." Hunk uses an ice-cream scoop to ladle out cookie dough on baking parchment. "How did you find out?"

"Veronica told me. She was worried. I went to see for myself." Pidge whistles. "It was something."

Hunk shrugs. "Red Paladins."

Pidge nods. "Red Paladins. It's a miracle Shiro's allowing it. Then again, I think Shiro's hungover."

"How do you know that?"

"My brother threw up in the trash can outside my room and conked out in the hallway. Matt doesn't drink alone. I didn't even know this ship had alcohol aboard."

"Well, obviously we're not supposed to know about it because we're underage."

"That's bullshit."

Hunk considers it. "That _is_ bullshit."

"I think we should take this opportunity to do what normal teens are doing," says Pidge. "This is a chance to perform the traditional youthful idiocies that we rightfully should have performed two years ago."

"You're absolutely right."

Pidge hacks the Atlas. Hunk grabs a dinner trolley and throws a bedsheet over it like a tablecloth. They subtly make their way to the hidden space bar and are hunched over the entry keypad when Lance and Keith tap them on the shoulder.

"What—how did you—" Pidge squeaks. "I even wrote a fake maintenance schedule for this sector! The plan was foolproof!"

Lance gives them an are-you-kidding-me look. Keith taps his head. "Link," he says. "We can sense your up-to-something vibe."

Lance shoves an elbow into Keith's side.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Vibe check," says Lance, straight-faced.

"You can't fight here," Hunk hisses at Keith, who looks ready to go another round. "We'll get caught!"

Keith stares at him. Then he presses his palm on the entry keypad. The door slides open.

Hunk and Pidge stare back at him.

"He's twenty-two," Lance supplies.

"Jesus, you're old," says Pidge.

"I'm not old!" Keith splutters. "I'm—mature!"

"Sure, old man."

They load up their transport and somehow manage to evade most of the crew whilst pushing a highly suspicious dinner cart between them. The few people they do come across stare at the rattling cart in confusion. On each occasion, the four of them give the crew member an eerily synchronized look of _what are you gonna do about it?_

They reach Hunk's room without interruption. They proceed to get wasted, to mixed results.

"My head is floating," Hunk declares, lying spread-eagle on the floor.

"I think I have abandonment issues," Keith confesses, hunched over the little coffee table.

"I'm a goddamn failure," states Pidge, head pillowed on Hunk's stomach.

Lance silently gazes down at his palms.

"Aren't we a cheerful bunch," says Hunk.

When Shiro opens the door, they're in a morose pile of contemplative limbs on the floor. Hunk strains his neck to look at him. "Oh, hey, Shiro's here."

Shiro sighs. He sits cross-legged next to the pile.

For a moment, the absence of a sixth presence hurts like a knife in the gut.

Then Shiro says, "You know, I could have told you that alcohol doesn't make you feel better. It usually does the opposite."

Someone sighs. Hunk thinks it might be Lance.

"Well," mutters Pidge. "It was worth a try."

* * *

The Atlas lands on Earth to a hero's welcome. News broadcasts are taken over by video clips of people cheering in commemorative parades. The Voltron toys are selling like crazy. Street artists paint giant murals of the Lion Princess on the undersides of rattling bridges. There's talk of instituting a new planetary holiday. Some genius suggests calling it Paladin's Day.

It's a piping hot load of bullshit. Pidge entertains the notion of saying those exact words on camera.

There is a ridiculous amount of interview requests rolling in each day. Paparazzi crowd the front gates of the Galaxy Garrison. Hunk buys a new phone the first week back, but the store clerk leaks his phone number, so he has to abandon the device swamped by spam and accept Pidge's generous offer of a spiffed-up Interplanetary Transponder. 

They kind of don't know what to do with themselves.

Then Iverson sits the five of them down to talk about the future. He rants off the pro-Earth, pro-military spiel he's obligated to make: as citizens of Earth, and as the most famous faces in the entire universe, they have a responsibility to participate in high-profile efforts of diplomacy and public service, and the higher-ups expect them to make their loyalties to Earth very clear, et cetera, et cetera.

Throughout the speech, Shiro looks down at his lap. Lance stares at a spot somewhere above Iverson's shoulder. Hunk is frowning. Keith crosses his arms defensively. Pidge pulls up a piece of code on her wrist-com under the conference table and tunes Iverson out. She's already heard his rhetoric of "greater good" one too many times. 

Then Iverson clears his throat. "Of course, we are aware that the services you have given to our planet and our universe are comparable to none. I've spoken with planetary leaders, and we have agreed that should any of you choose not to partake in military affairs, you will be provided with full support in whatever career path you choose."

He pulls up a presentation on the holo-screen. The Paladin mind-link pings with confusion. Pidge looks up from her wrist-com. Lance actually blinks and focuses on Iverson.

"This is essential information! Take notes!" Iverson barks, and suddenly, it's as if they're transported back to their school years.

For the next several hours, Iverson proceeds to give them a crash course in dealing with honorary medals and veteran pensions. He buzzes in guest speakers, many of them Garrison professors Pidge recognizes from her cadet years. There's a deluge of information on veteran support programs, retirement processes, privacy measures, university offers, alternate career options, and in-progress space programs. One presentation is titled "How To Politely Tell the Press to Fxxk Off."

Pidge knows why Iverson's doing this. If the Defenders of the Universe are in shit shape, it isn't good for morale. The info session is strictly for the "greater good," an insurance that the former Paladins won't fuck up their lives too much. Pidge and her team need to remain mentally and morally infallible for the history books. Iverson's priorities are the same ones he had four years ago.

The info dump is still annoyingly helpful. 

"Don't feel pressured to make a quick decision," says the final keynote speaker. "There are countless options available to you. No choice needs to be permanent."

They even get a printed list of emergency helplines and qualified therapists.

When they finally walk out of the meeting, Keith says, "What the fuck was that."

Shiro says, "Your guess is as good as mine."

"Who uses paper these days?" Pidge wonders aloud, squinting at the print-out.

Hunk shrugs. "I guess someone thought we were worth the extra expense."

In the following weeks, they attempt to decide what to do with themselves.

To no one's surprise, Shiro accepts the offer for a diplomatic representative position on the Galactic Coalition. Surprisingly, Hunk decides to accompany Shiro on the same job. "I promised Shay I'd visit her in peacetime," he says when Pidge asks about it. "I'll see how the job goes."

Keith says yes to Krolia's invitation to help reorganize the chaos that is the former Galra Empire. Pidge decides she's going to get an actual college degree so idiots will have one more reason to respect her.

Lance decides to retire to his family farm. 

They have one last dinner together and video-chat with Coran. They make shitty popcorn in a microwave and have a Disney movie marathon.

Halfway through _Frozen_ , Keith abruptly says, "We should take our Lions out on a test flight. For tomorrow."

"It's 3 a.m. It's already tomorrow," Pidge points out.

"That's a good idea, actually," says Hunk, ignoring Pidge's very reasonable input.

They throw on their jackets and trudge out to the Lion Hangar at 3 a.m. in the morning. Pidge deliberately refuses to look at the night sky. Shiro punches in the authorization passcode. The heavy hangar doors slowly fold open.

The five Paladins come to a standstill in front of the four Lions.

"So," says Pidge. Her feet are glued to the ground. "Who wants to go first?"

Keith clenches his jaw. Hunk stares at Yellow.

Lance—whose head was tipped back to look at the stars the entire walk here—lurches forward. Red's eyes flare up, and the Lion comes to life.

In unspoken unison, the rest of them follow him into Red. They arrange themselves around the pilot seat like they once did on a dusty desert afternoon three years ago, when they first discovered Blue beneath weather-beaten rocks and Lance walked forward to greet her. 

"I feel the need to point out that we are in some kind of futuristic alien cat head right now," says Hunk. Keith huffs what might have been a laugh.

The Paladin link hums gently between them. Pidge mentally categorizes the thrumming strands of emotion into fresh grief, muted dread, and . . . anticipation.

"Everyone ready?" Lance asks. His voice wobbles a little.

They grab onto each other. "Ready," says Shiro.

"All right," says Lance. "Let's try this." He pushes the thrusters to full throttle.

Red is as fast as a lightning strike. They cut through the night like it's the easiest thing in the universe. Lance flies them straight up, cloud covers whipping past in a blink of an eye, the atmospheric pressure barely registering on their takeoff.

Keith sucks in a breath. Shiro's hand tightens on Pidge's shoulder. They're an arrow shot up in a perfect parabola, and Pidge feels the rumble of speed roll up the soles of her feet and thinks, _I've missed this_.

Ah, fuck. Since when was she more pilot than scientist?

Red gracefully weaves through the web of satellites orbiting the planet at monstrous speeds. Lance's control is impressive. He swings them between the mesh of moving machinery and brings them up higher with barely a lurch, spinning them about to face their planet. When their view is unobstructed, Red stops moving.

For a moment, they look down at their small blue rock, suspended in the chillingly familiar void of space.

"Nicely flown," says Shiro, after a beat of silence.

"Thanks," says Lance. "Keith? Any thoughts?"

"Get us down in one piece and we'll see," says Keith, bouncing his leg in half-restrained excitement.

As soon as Red lands, they're out and running for their Lions. Pidge is in pajama bottoms, Hunk is wearing flip-flops, and Keith has his hair pinned up with a giant hair clip. None of them are in their armor. None of them have their bayards. None of it matters.

For the first time in months, Pidge feels Green power up with a low, pleased growl that shakes her down to her bones. She presses her sneakers to the pedals, pushes her glasses into place, and blasts off the ground—tearing free of gravity, her Lion's nose pointed skyward.

They play a dangerously high-speed tag on the outskirts of Earth's magnetic field. They don't have their helmets or their comms, but the mind-link remains strong. Pidge feels Hunk's satisfaction as a solid anchor. Keith's heart is beating fast. Lance's calm-before-a-shot pools around their ankles. Shiro is a gentle veil of nostalgia. They fit together like puzzle pieces, impossibly intertwined and bound by sparking jumper cables.

There's a piece missing, but it's not like that hasn't happened before. They push their Lions faster and faster, matching the speed of comets and solar flares, daring lightning to claw at their heels. The world is reduced to the crushing silence of space, five lungs breathing in perfect tandem, and the great wide unknown streaking across their field of vision in specks of silver light.

When the Sun hits their part of the continent and they descend through the maze of man-made satellites, it is with full knowledge that this is a conscious choice made in favor of the flimsy, gravitational rules of land-based life. Gravity has long since lost its power over them. 

Then Pidge and Lance watch the others leave with the morning sunrise, Keith in Black and Hunk and Shiro in Yellow. The fragile glow of contentment leaves them as quickly as it came. With a dull sense of finality, the others' presence on the Paladin link fades away to low static, leaving only her and Lance behind.

* * *

Keith realizes, very early on, that he's an idiot for thinking he could be apart from the others for more than a week.

He thought, since he did it once before, that the separation would be manageable this time. He's very wrong. He jerks awake at night from dreams of being lost and alone, floating aimlessly in an inky black vacuum and staring down an obsidian mirror that swallowed everyone else but left him standing. He wakes up, but he can't sense anything on the Paladin link. There's no way to judge the truth of his dreams.

After sleeping a total of seven hours in five days, he runs a hand down his face and reassesses the situation. He's twenty-two. He's matured. He knows from firsthand experience that this isn't sustainable.

So he makes a teludav jump to Hunk and Shiro's Coalition ship and sleeps away a whole day in Shiro's room, his Paladin link thrumming comfortably in the back of his mind.

"You don't have to be here with me," says Krolia, when he returns. "Go join your friends."

He shakes his head. "This is where I need to be."

The others were dragged into a foreign war on foreign planets. He's a different case. This ten-thousand-year-old tradition of slaughter is his inheritance. This fight was in his blood before he knew it. When he faced down a piece of Zarkon in Honerva's mind and screamed accusations at the monster, it was deeply personal. 

One Galra Paladin fucked up the universe. Keith has a responsibility to carve out that poison from the world.

On principle, it's not a bad idea. But he kind of forgot that he really, really hates being a leader.

It's nothing like being a leader to Voltron. He knows his team inside out—knows their thoughts, their impulses, what they scream in their heads when their limbs refuse to move. Hunting down Galra war criminals with a Blade of Marmora fleet is a whole other business.

It's a tedious, repetitive task. None of the war criminals are as suffocating a presence as Zarkon, or Lotor, or Honerva. Some are actually pathetic, and it makes his blood boil. He thinks, _This is who ordered the invasion and genocide of five separate peoples?_ It makes him sick to count the massacres carried out by fearful, incompetent zealots.

Lance is faster than them. Pidge is smarter than them. Hunk is stronger than them. Shiro's plain better than them. Keith goes into combat with the ghosts of his team's voices in the back of his head, and he fights like them combined.

But the bloody lips, bruised knuckles, and the adrenaline rush are all his. The accelerating pulse in the heat of battle, the teetering highs of pinpoint turns and roaring cannons, that's all him. 

He knows he's supposed to act like a guardian of galactic peace, but he's not cut out for that. He's not a real leader like Allura. This is what he's good at, wild-eyed fury and half-second intuitions. 

Somehow, verbal insults to his birth and character from enemy soldiers become a normal fixture of his missions. He lets most of it flow past him. He's no stranger to poisonous contempt. Outside derision has always been a key facet of his life.

But there are some lines he can't bear to have crossed.

"A half-breed mutt masquerading as a warrior," taunts one hulking Galra general. "You're nearly as pathetic as that dead Altean bitch."

He almost rips the heart out of the bastard. The only thing that stays his hand is the memory of Allura offering her hand to Honerva.

_How did you do it_ , he wonders, every time he gets in Black and feels her absence in the pit of his stomach.

His schedule is packed. He has way too many ships at his disposal. People keep asking him for orders outside of battle. He doesn't know what to say. He makes time to go see Shiro and Hunk whenever he can, but he ends up losing sleep anyway.

At least he isn't bad at the fending-off-assassins part of his job. Apart from a few stabbings and a plasma burn, his body remains fully functional.

The year goes by in a whirlwind of laser cannons and murderous criminals. 

It's during the monthly executive meeting, held right before the anniversary of Allura's death, that the Galra council asks him to be the first Galra representative on the Galactic Coalition.

Do they realize that the last time he led something, a Paladin had to give her life for the cause?

He's not even full Galra.

He represses the urge to laugh, because that would be inappropriate. He doesn't scream, either, because that would also be inappropriate. Instead, he politely declines. Then he requests an extended leave.

Krolia gives him a hug before he goes. "Take as long as you need," she says.

He still finds it difficult to think of her as his mother.

"See you later," he says, as a promise.

* * *

The first thing Pidge does in college is to write a paper that dismantles the preconceived fallacies concerning AI sentience. She also debunks several theories on wormhole physics and gravity pockets, citing the data she collected herself from twin suns and teludav repairs. That gets her bumped up to graduate studies in no time. 

She and Matt acquire a decrepit vintage car and trick it out with all sorts of bonus features. Pidge discovers, to her indignation, that she sucks at operating cars.

"It doesn't make sense," she protests. "I can pilot Green. Why can't I pilot this?"

"Maybe because this is a car," Matt suggests, "and it's called driving."

Matt drops her off at class each morning before he drives to the lab. 

"You look a lot like Katie Holt," people tell her. "You know, the Paladin?"

"I get that a lot," says Pidge Gunderson.

Her classmates are conceited idiots. She doesn't bother making friends. 

After four long years, the Holts finally get to revert back to their original form—a semi-stereotypical suburban white family. They have hectic weekday breakfasts consisting of cereal bowls and misplaced academic journals, which is what happens when four scientists live under one roof. Their inconsistent sleep schedules rarely match up. Unidentifiable plant matter and electronic trinkets litter the hallways. 

On weekends, Sam and Colleen Holt go out for therapy, followed by dinner. Matt and Katie Holt build sparring bots in the back yard and practice smashing them into pieces. 

They don't spar each other. They'd rather not re-enact their reunion fight, which could have gone so very wrong under different circumstances.

"My children have become athletes," sighs Colleen, apparently choosing not to acknowledge her own proficiency in firearms.

"I have abs now," Pidge declares.

"I have abs too," says Matt. "You're not special."

Pidge flips him off.

Colleen shakes her head. "Athletes."

The siblings slap together a shoddy Interplanetary Communication disc on the roof where they used to stargaze. It lags a bit, but works fine for short text messages. This is necessary for Matt's ongoing long-distance relationship.

"Why haven't you gone back out there?" Pidge asks her brother. 

"I figured there's a good chance that if I leave for the stars again, I'm coming back in a body bag. Didn't want to risk it. Not so soon." Matt ruffles her hair. "I want to be here for your college years." 

Pidge can't tell if he's being sincere or making a joke.

"Why haven't _you_ gone back out there?" Matt asks.

Pidge shrugs. "Same reason. But also, I want an excuse to tell adults they're wrong."

Matt laughs.

Matt doesn't drink alone, and Pidge looks too young to be allowed in a bar, so they usually end up sitting in the yard with a pack of beer.

"Earth grass is nice," says Matt, who was stationed on giant rocks devoid of breathable atmosphere.

"Yeah," agrees Pidge, who prefers non-carnivorous grass to carnivorous grass.

Matt has a compulsive need for open doors and windows. Pidge doesn't like to be outside at the same time as the stars. Their father gets angry too easily, which is a fact he's deeply ashamed of. Their mother walks around at night checking on her children, and after the first time—Matt smashes the bedside lamp trying to grab his staff, Pidge breaks the door by firing her bayard at it, and their parents nudge them toward therapy for a month—they pretend not to wake at the sound of creaking floorboards. 

Pidge won. She reclaimed her father and brother from death. She defeated the emperor, the prince, and the witch-empress. This is supposed to be her victory. This is the part of her fairy-tale where she gets to return to her normal.

She watches her father shake out his trembling hands, hears Matt softly exhale as he bends down on his knee, feels her mother unconsciously grip her too close. She shoves her armor to the back of her closet, but she carries her bayard everywhere. There's a hollow ache in the part of her mind that she trained to link onto five other people.

Her Lion doesn't call for her.

Or maybe it's her who isn't listening.

She lasts three months before she surrenders to the truth. Her "normal" died four years ago when half of her family rode a rocket out to space. Relenting to an instinctual need, she jumps into Green and flies to the McClain farm. Her mind recognizes a familiar presence and latches onto him even before she lands.

Lance is standing on the front porch. He looks a little skinnier than the last time she saw him. He waves, then sticks his hands in his pockets in a way that is so distinctly _Lance_ that her chest tightens. She's missed him.

As she gets close, she blinks at the blue Altean markings on his cheekbones. Oh. Right.

Lance twists his mouth. "I know. It takes some getting used to."

Pidge nods. "Uh-huh. I'm taking you out."

"Ooh. Is this a date?"

"You wish. Where's Red?"

"Barn."

"She fits in a barn?"

"It's a really old barn. Practically skeletal. Had to put a tarp on her so Google Earth can't disclose her location to everyone on the planet."

She rolls her eyes. "Sure. Why not. Lead the way, farmer dude."

He raises his eyebrow at her. "You're itching to get off the ground, aren't you? A pilot at heart, who'd have thought—"

"Shush, Tailor. Let's go, the sooner we're in the air the sooner you can 'thread-the-needle,' or whatever you call your barbaric flip maneuvers."

She feels much steadier than she has in weeks. Maybe three years in space with the Paladin link has made her dependent on four other people to complete her. Maybe the reason they didn't go completely insane in space was because of their link. It kept them grounded, logical, on task and on point.

She wonders what that means for their sanity, now that they're bound to be physically apart from each other.

If Lance wasn't on Earth, who would she go to?

"Aww, you remember my old nickname." Lance puts a hand to his chest. "I'm touched."

He's acting fine, but he feels like a black, depthless well. Judging by the way his family is staring out the window at her in poorly disguised awe, she surmises his functional normalcy is only possible because of her presence.

It's strange to realize that they can still make each other stronger—even outside of Voltron, even if it's just the two of them left behind on a planet that used to be enough for her.

"Come on, I'll race you," she says, just to make him grin.

* * *

Shiro and Hunk come aboard the Coalition ship with a small crew of humans. The crew integration process is surprisingly smooth and painless. Which, on further thought, shouldn't have been surprising. After all, the Coalition is a determinedly peace-oriented operation, and this isn't their first rodeo.

Shiro wonders if a part of him will always expect aliens to chain him up, push him into a fighting ring, then amputate his limb. He doesn't want to lose another limb if he can help it, since he's supposed to have "a long life" ahead of him, or something—the prospects of which he isn't going to think about right now. No thank you.

He stumbles through the days by relying on his strong point: task focus.

Attend one meeting with the arguing chancellors. Prepare for a second meeting with the arguing chancellors. Sort through missives for priority missions. Work out a navigation route for the next month. Arrive on a new planet. Explain Honerva's defeat and Allura's sacrifice to a stranger. Rinse and repeat.

He notices Hunk has taken to bringing two plates into his office for meals. He appreciates the thoughtful gesture, but he's not hungry. Really.

Hunk gives him a stern look.

"This isn't right," Shiro protests, sensing an imminent authority shift in their dynamic. "You're not Space Dad. I'm Space Dad."

"I'm not Space Dad," Hunk says, "but I _am_ Space Cook. My command trumps yours. Eat your lunch."

Shiro concedes to the power shift and eats his lunch.

Two weeks after they leave Earth, Keith flies in to steal Shiro's bed. He gives no explanation—he just hugs Shiro and Hunk, yawns, then collapses onto Shiro's bed and starts snoring. Shiro has to request for a makeshift mattress on Hunk's floor. 

"It's a sleepover!" Hunk declares, fluffing up his pillow. "Do you want chips? A movie? Any late-night secrets you'd like to share?"

"Uh," says Shiro, his thoughts immediately jumping to the one thing he'd rather not think about. "No?"

Hunk raises his eyebrows. "Uh-huh. Another time, then." 

They play cards. Hunk fills him in on all the interpersonal drama amongst their human crewmates, name-dropping left and right. 

"Oh, and you know Celine, from Analytics? Pol says he heard Gail say she saw Celine sneaking into Ambassador Zybes's room, which is really wild if it's true, but they could just be trying to make Olianne jealous—"

Shiro has no idea who any of those people are. He probably should know. He's supposed to be the leader of this mission. With an internal sigh, he adds socialization to his list of future tasks.

Hunk pauses. "You just sighed."

"Uh. No, I didn't."

"Nope, heard you sigh. What is it?"

Shiro hesitates, then admits, "I don't know who those people are."

"Ohhh." Hunk makes a face. "Sorry. Guess I've been boring you, huh?"

"No, not at all," Shiro protests. "I should know who's in my team, that's on me."

Hunk flaps a hand. "It's fine, you're under a lot of stress. No one would blame you if you didn't know people personally. You're doing great already."

Shiro frowns. "No, really, I—"

The door slides open. They both jump, grabbing for their bayards.

It's Keith. He's clutching a pillow.

"Incredible," says Hunk. "This is turning out to be an actual sleepover."

Keith drags his feet inside. He looks half asleep. Shiro closes the door as Keith falls gracelessly onto the makeshift mattress.

"Hey," Keith mumbles. "Heard you talking about me."

"We weren't talking about you," Shiro reassures him, confused.

"But, you said . . . something, something, 'my team.' That's your word for . . . ." Keith sort of waves his hand around. "Us."

"Oh," says Shiro. Keith is right. For so long, 'my team' had a fixed meaning in his life.

With a lurch, he wonders if he's ready for that to change.

"So I came," Keith mumbles. "You can plan now. For team stuff. I'm listening."

"You are two-thirds asleep," Hunk points out.

"It's too comfortable," Keith sighs. "You know, with the link."

Keith _does_ feel a bit like melting marshmallows at the moment. A glowing warmth begins leeching into Shiro's mind.

"Realized something, out in space," Keith says into his pillow. "I don't like being alone."

"Aw, buddy." Hunk starts petting Keith's head. Shiro can sense the exact moment Keith loses the fight with his drooping eyelids. 

Hunk yawns. "Right, that's contagious. Lights out, I guess."

With Keith's marshmallow comfort wrapped around him, Shiro has the best sleep he's had in a while.

When he wakes up, Keith is embarrassed. "Sorry I kicked you out of your room," he mutters, and Shiro suddenly remembers him younger, tiny fists and teary eyes and wild desperation lacing his every action.

"You're always welcome here," Shiro tells his little brother.

It becomes routine for Keith to drop by every week or so for a sleepover. Shiro sleeps better when he's around. Hunk agrees.

"Do you think it's a 'strength in numbers' type of thing?" Hunk asks. "Like we're each other's insomnia cure."

Shiro shrugs. "Maybe."

The thought of dependence makes him uneasy. If he gets stranded in a hostile environment and he's hindered by the absence of his team, that could spell disaster. He needs to be able to function without his teammates.

So when Hunk gets an invitation from Shay, Shiro tells him to go ahead without him. "I need to catch up on paperwork," he tells Hunk. "I'll see you in the Balmera District a week from now."

Hunk doesn't like it. 

"I'll be fine," says Shiro.

The moment Hunk drops off the Paladin link, Shiro realizes what Keith meant when he said he was lonely. 

A jaw-gaping emptiness threatens to swallow him up. The erratic thoughts he fought to suppress no longer obey him. He feels as though he's lost an anchor he didn't know he had. The severed part of his arm throbs with a phantom ache. On the first night, unwanted memories invade his mind and push him down under until he chokes for breath.

He can't concentrate. The black void outside his windows has him feeling claustrophobic. He skips meals and postpones meetings. He tries to recall how he did things before the Paladin link became a staple of his life.

Three days in, a Blade of Marmora comes with a message from Keith, and Shiro loses it. The panic in his head overflows at the sight of a Galra soldier. White-hot fear sweeps over his vision.

When he regains his senses, his office is wrecked and he's being pinned down by two of his human crewmates. He gasps for breath.

The Galra messenger is looking down at him with a stricken expression.

Shiro can't breathe. A strangled scream scratches out his throat. Someone is shouting, but he doesn't have the energy to decode its meaning. He can't—oh god, he can't think, he can't breathe, he's dying, he's _dying_ , he's always dying—

A heavy realization strikes him. He isn't okay. _I'm never going to be okay_.

He stops resisting his captors.

The Galra messenger is ushered out. The crew carefully release him. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, then just stays there, catching his breath.

They broke him into a thousand little pieces and glued him back together into a dysfunctional cannon. He wasn't meant to survive. He was supposed to blow up, taking his glass-shard problems with him.

He has no idea how he's supposed to live like this.

He buries his head in his arms. Hot tears clog his throat and soak into his eyelashes. He shudders.

"Captain," he hears someone say, their voice distorted as if coming from very far away. "Captain Shirogane, if you could breathe with me. Inhale on one, two, . . ."

The voice is calm. Shiro listens to the voice count. After a while, he tries to match his breathing to the numbers.

It's difficult, and it takes a long time, but the voice doesn't pause. Slowly, Shiro's breathing settles.

When he's ready, he raises his head from his arms. The owner of the voice is a familiar officer, but Shiro can't recall his name. 

"Thank you," Shiro rasps.

The man nods. "If you would allow me to walk you to the medical bay."

"I'm not hurt."

"Our health professionals can offer you additional assistance. Allow me to walk you to the medical bay."

Guess it wasn't a question. ". . . All right."

They force him to sign up for therapy. Shiro's too tired to fight it.

The next day, Keith and Hunk fly in on each other's heels, expressions pinched with concern. The moment they're in range for the Paladin link, a jagged piece of Shiro's mind seems to slide back into place. 

"What happened?" Keith demands. "If Jhadin laid a hand on you, I'm going to kill him in ritualistic combat."

"It's fine," Shiro rushes to explain. "I overreacted. Jhadin didn't do anything wrong. I had a slip-up, that's all."

"I knew I didn't want you to be alone," grumbles Hunk. 

"I was fine," Shiro protests.

Hunk shakes his head. "We know you can look after yourself, but there's nothing wrong with having people around, just in case."

Keith looks at Hunk, his gaze sharp, and for a second he slips back into the role of Black Paladin, easy as a well-fitted glove. "You won't leave him?"

Hunk nods, acknowledging the command. "I won't. I got this."

"Really, it isn't that big of a deal," Shiro tries to interject.

"I have heard you say that way too many times," says Keith, "and whenever you said it, you were so fucked up, sometimes you were delirious."

". . . That's not true."

"Remember when you had a glowing purple wound in your side and you started rambling about crash velocity?"

Shiro sulks.

They have their usual sleepover in Hunk's room. Shiro falls asleep in record time, cocooned in the glowing warmth that he failed not to miss. 

Keith hugs him before he leaves. "See you soon," he mutters. "Stay safe."

"You too," says Shiro. He doesn't like the look of those dark circles under Keith's eyes. "Promise you'll take care of yourself?"

Keith pulls his mouth into a wry grin. "Yeah."

* * *

Hunk has been all over the universe. He's seen twin blue stars tearing each other apart, witnessed blacked-out pits of dying suns, watched the spiraling towers of fallen comets and the shimmering blue of a galaxy in birth. But the Balmeran sunset always takes his breath away. It's not as groundbreaking as the first time—that moment he realized just how beautiful and vast his world has become—but it's pretty close.

Beside him, Shay sighs contentedly. "I never get tired of this."

"Yep," he says.

He only asks her once.

"Do you want to come with me?" he offers. "See the universe. Help people rebuild." Shay loves that, helping broken planets heal.

"I can't," she says after a breathless silence, her expression torn. "I would miss home. Every day."

Shay loves, but her greatest love is her Mother Land, her Balmera. As boundless as her love is, her anchor has long been lodged and buried in the crystal caves of her youth.

He smiles at her with a pang in his heart. "I understand."

At least he could make her hesitate. 

He doesn't ask again.

Hunk was home, for a short while. He helped his mom in the kitchen and repaired motorcycles with his dad. He bought a telescope and used it once, to check the luminescent imprint of their Princess in the depths of the night sky.

Then he left.

They're alike in more ways than one, he and Shay—but they're different in the most important sense. Shay isn't tired of her sunsets. Hunk's favorite view changes constantly—the glaring golden rays of twin suns over a volcano, the scathing white beams of the North Star breaking over a foreign horizon, the glow of smoky green dwarf galaxies reflecting off a purple moon.

Home is the same. He's the one that changed. 

He wonders when he became more Space than Earth.

* * *

They offer him a chance to go back into space. Lance refuses.

He can't look himself in the mirror. 

Pidge is staying. The rest are leaving, bound for who knows where. Lance nearly snorts at the thought. How would they leave, when they haven't been brave enough to fly their Lions since . . . since.

When Pidge is frozen, Keith is angry, and Hunk is scared—when Shiro quietly steps back from the broken pack of Lions, _it's your decision_ —Lance inhales the sharp 3 a.m. chill and throws himself at Red, because reckless chances are what he's supposed to excel at. 

He was the first, way back when. He was the idiot dumb enough to walk into the gaping blue maws of an alien ship, just because it felt _right_.

If it hadn't been for him, Blue would still be asleep. There would be no Voltron, no Coalition, no great struggle against the final stages of a conquering evil.

If it hadn't been for him, Allura would still be alive. Asleep in her pod. Waiting for the right hero to wake her from her slumber, waiting for the right moment for her inexorable vengeance.

He knows waking her wasn't for him to decide. Allura resented losing ten thousand years. Even if he went back in time, he wouldn't be able to ignore her need for freedom.

Allura's dead. 

She's smiling in the photographs. He doesn't recognize the guy who's grinning next to her.

He goes home because he doesn't have anything left in him to give. Veronica comes with him. She's on leave. 

"No work for a month," she says, pretending not to notice the blue marks on his cheeks. "I've earned this vacation."

He folds himself against the car door and lets his sister drive.

The family farm is not that far from the beach. Every week, the entire household moves outside to have a seaside picnic. It's a family tradition.

He missed the ocean.

His niece and nephew splash about on the surf, shrieking in joy. His younger cousins build a sandcastle. His older sister doles out drinks from the cooler.

Lance watches the waves lap at the sand and thinks about wading in, imagines walking forward until seawater closes over his head and his insides fill with the sea. He pushes his fingers into the sand and wonders about drowning.

“Lance,” says Veronica. He turns to her and realizes this isn’t the first time she’s called his name. There’s a worried pinch to her brows. At this rate, she’s going to end up with premature wrinkles.

He looks away. “Sorry, daydreaming. What was that?”

She doesn’t push. “Do you want the lemonade or the pomegranate juice?”

He pulls his hands out of the beach. There’s sand stuck under his fingernails. “Lemonade sounds awesome.”

He opts out of seaside picnics after that.

He loses time. He's awake, then asleep. The tides pull at his ankles and coax him in, promising to fill his lungs with salt and paint his eyelids blue. He'd be tempted if he could get out of bed.

When he forces himself into the bathroom to shower, he smashes the mirror in a fit of inexplicable rage and has to get his knuckles stitched. 

It feels like he's drowning. The process is excruciatingly slow.

Then, one afternoon—he knows it's afternoon because he's been watching the sunlight hit his bedpost just so—his mind is resuscitated by sparking jumper cables.

He sits upright. Someone is clamping onto one end of his fraying Paladin link with a frightening determination.

It's Pidge.

He walks down the stairs and goes out the front door. He's in yesterday's clothes, but neither of them care about that. Pidge blinks at his marked cheeks, as if she'd forgotten. Lance nearly laughs at the thought.

"I'm taking you out," she says, and it's like he's suddenly broken the ocean's surface and gasping in a lungful of fresh air. He feels present in a way he hasn't been for some time. Bits of himself trickle back to him through the link—Pidge's memories of the boy who died with the Princess—and Lance remembers how to be him again.

It's easy, with Pidge. She feels like spazzing circuits and smashed bits of robotics, the metal platings around her heart serrated and patched together haphazardly. They know what they are. There's nothing to hide.

Green is light, but Red is fast. They tie the race. 

"You've gotten sloppy," says Pidge, flyaway laughter in her voice.

"Everyone's a critic," he grumbles, but he doesn't argue.

She comes over every week, after that. They push their Lions to a breakneck pace, leaning forward as they rush to a point between Earth and the Moon. They pretend they're flying out to the furthest edges of the universe, blasting out of their Solar System in the blink of an eye and roaring past the glittering streams of the Milky Way. But as much as they have a complicated relationship with their tiny blue origin, their anchor is cast and they're tethered to the ones they leave behind. 

They never stray far from their blue planet. Like clockwork, Lance returns in time for dinner. Pidge finishes repairing a sparring bot while she waits for Matt to pick up a pack of beer.

When the anniversary comes around and Coran calls them to Altea, Lance walks aboard Red in a fresh shirt and sneakers. He flies.

He's the first to arrive. Blue is sitting in the same spot he saw her last. He lands Red next to her.

Coran pulls him into a really long hug. "Lance, my boy," he says, sniffling. "It's so good to see you."

"Hi, Coran," Lance mumbles, tears closing up his throat.

They cry together for a bit. 

Altea has a statue of their Lion Princess. Her favorite flowers are growing in the dunes. Lance sits at the base of her marble image and waits for the others.

Each arrival through the teludav is a magnetic reconnection. Keith feels like a carefully controlled inferno, tugging at the limits of his anxious storm. Hunk is a comet, untethered for once. Shiro is a heavy fog of sadness. Pidge comes through last, her sparking edges scraping at the seams.

They're all kinds of fucked up, but each of them is a puzzle piece meant to fit together. Lance feels them slot into place and build him back up into what he used to be. He drinks in their ideas of him and works to make himself whole. 

There's a piece missing, but this is the best he's felt in so long.

One by one, they land their Lions next to Blue. The reunion hugs are pretty enthusiastic.

They have dinner on an outdoor pavilion overlooking Allura's statue—like they need her to be there, if only carved in stone. Their Altean Uncle seems to be doing fine for himself. They take turns sharing what they've been up to.

"AI project," says Pidge. "I'm gonna name him Chip. He's gonna prove my superiority over my professors. And maybe my brother."

"Your naming sense is really something," comments Keith.

"I'm doubling sightseeing with planetary rehabilitation," says Hunk. "With a little culinary experimentation on the side."

"His mock Chick-fil-A is actually incredible," Shiro volunteers.

"The Galra Council asked me to be the Coalition representative," says Keith, stabbing at his salad.

"Let me guess," Lance jumps in. "You said no."

Keith gives him a steady look. "I'd like to see you one-up months of assassination survival, farmer."

"Assassination?" asks Shiro. "You didn't tell us anything about assassination."

"Uh," says Keith.

"Unlike you, I was very responsible about my bodily safety," says Lance, lifting his nose in the air. 

"He's lying," says Pidge.

"Shut up," Lance hisses.

"At this point in our friendship, I'm not even surprised," says Hunk. "I'm just proud we all survived this year."

"Oh, I missed this," Coran sighs fondly.

The dinner stretches into late evening. By the time they're done with desserts, everyone is drowsy.

"Insomnia cures," Hunk mutters. 

"Like catnip," says Keith.

"Do you actually know what catnip means, or are you just bullshitting right now?" asks Pidge.

Shiro yawns. Lance grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him at the others, saying, "Where's your respect for the elderly? Look at this poor man. We need to get him some sleep, pronto."

Shiro blinks. "I'm not that old," he mumbles.

"I'm over ten thousand years old!" declares Coran. Then he face-plants on the dining table and starts snoring.

They stare at their Space Uncle.

"Was anyone monitoring his liquor consumption?" asks Pidge.

"I was busy monitoring our white-haired elderly," says Hunk.

"Uh," says Shiro.

"He'll survive," says Keith. 

They lug Coran to his bed and stumble to their own rooms. The proximity of the Paladin link is a heady drug. Lance can't get enough of it. He smiles up at the ceiling as fatigue drags down his eyelids.

He jolts awake to the Lions roaring in his eardrums.

That hasn't happened since . . . since.

He bolts out of bed and sprints to the landing docks, barefoot. The others come rushing out as well, an impossible, feverish hope burning through their Paladin link. 

The Blue Lion's eyes are glowing.

The last piece falls into place. The link feels whole.

There are six of them here.

She's alive.

The realization washes over Lance like an icy wave. He gasps for air.

Allura isn't dead. Allura ascended to the hall of stars as their ruler, and her permanence is proven by the mark she left on the skies.

Allura is alive. She's immortal.

Lance can't tell if he's crying out of shock or joy.

One by one, the Lions' eyes grow brighter. Hunk inhales sharply. Pidge makes a small noise in the back of her throat. Shiro takes a shaky step forward. Keith unconsciously reaches out a hand.

When Lance finally hears her voice in his mind— _I'm sorry_ , she whispers—he feels the hot burn of his Altean markings lighting up for her touch, and he knows; this is a farewell.

But that's okay. This is a far kinder farewell than the damning finality he suffered a year ago. Allura isn't gone, she's just leaving for someplace else. He misses her, he didn't ever stop, but if this is a farewell to a Princess embarking on her grandest adventure yet, then it's okay.

The Paladin link is whole. For a fleeting fraction of a second, Lance McClain is whole.

He wrings out every last bit of his strength to smile. _I love you_ , he tells her, a promise.

_I love you_ , she sighs, content.

As one, the five Lions take off for the deepest part of the universe. 

Their Paladins are frozen in their wake until the morning sun comes up.

* * *

Once, there was a Princess who lost ten thousand years between one breath and the next.

She opened her eyes to a dying universe, this last woman of her species—Princess, Paladin, Lion Mother. She fought an emperor, a prince, and a witch-empress. She mourned and mourned, shed endless tears into the empty stretch of space.

Then she was angry.

They took her planet from her out of selfishness. They took her father from her out of selfishness. They tried to take her friends from her, tried to rip the dying world out of her white-knuckled grasp, tried to erase the shredded devastation that was all that was left to her.

She took them by the hand and screamed humanity back into their heinous, undead vessels.

This is her victory. She saved her world, her planet, her friends—out of selflessness. She is the antidote to the Galra's poison, an absolute reversal of what drove the universe to its death. She is the greatest sacrifice recorded in the history of time and space—immutable, permanent, carved into the very heart of a trillion snaking tendrils of reality.

It would be a lie to say she doesn't resent the necessity of her sacrifice. But she has learned, through excruciating experience, that there is always a price for peace.

_I love you_ , she tells the boy who baked cookies for her grief and chased the stars with nervous fascination.

_I love you_ , she tells the girl who barreled into hugs too fast and demanded the universe to give back what was hers.

_I love you_ , she tells the boy descended from her enemies, the protector who was unfailingly kind in his recklessness.

_I love you_ , she tells the man who gave his all for a cause that shouldn't have been his, who taught her the courage to close her eyes and offer up her all.

_I'm sorry_ , she tells her lover, because she knows how terrible it is to be the one left behind. _I love you_ , she tells him through her Lion's eyes—this boy who laughed too much and loved too deeply, who waded into a war to hold her hand as she drowned. 

_You're going to live_ , she thinks in rapturous satisfaction, looking upon her wide-eyed Paladins one last time. She dragged them into her fatal war, once. Now she gets to set them free.

This is her victory. 

_I love you_ , Allura whispers, then calls her Lions home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Now you are a lioness," said Aslan.  
> "And now all of Narnia will be renewed."
> 
> \- C. S. Lewis


End file.
